One Book In The Grave

“Who died and anointed you the pope?” he said.

I ignored him. “Emily, kitchen. Now.”

“I’m in the middle of something,” Emily said, poking her head out of her bedroom door across the living room. “Can’t it wait?”

I stared cockeyed at her. In the middle of something? Where did she think she was? There was nothing out here to be in the middle of. “No, it can’t wait. Sorry.”

She huffed and puffed her way across the living room and into the kitchen, then flashed me a scathing look. That’s when I realized that the sweet, docile Emily of yesteryear was now a pleasantly vague memory. I mentally cheered her on and wished Max lotsa luck. Meanwhile…

“I’m sick of us tiptoeing around each other,” I said. “It feels like we’re at some yoga peace retreat where we’re all expected to be enlightened and groovy and polite.”

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“I’m talking about the fact that I’m scared to death and I imagine both of you are, too.”

She took a breath and some of her features relaxed. I took that as a good sign.

“Max,” I continued, “you’re a guy, so you’re putting up a manly front. I get that. But, Emily, you’re acting like we’re at a garden party, having tea. And me? I’ve turned into a raving bitch.” I glanced around. “Okay, no argument there. So look. I know we haven’t seen each other in a few years, but we were friends, remember? I think we need to start working like a team. As friends. Not strangers. Not anymore. We need to stay close and be aware of things around us. We need to be our own best security system.”

“I’ve got my rifle with me at all times,” Max said.

I nodded. “I know, and I’m glad. But if someone is watching this place, if they try to attack us, they’re going to do it while Gabriel and Derek are away. So we’re basically on our own here. I think we should talk about contingencies.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” Emily said sarcastically. “May I go now?”

I was taken aback and answered her in kind. “You may kiss my butt.” But I immediately regretted it because I knew something was wrong. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said bluntly, before I could finish my sentence.

“You don’t sound fine.”

Her face wrinkled in a scowl and she said, “Bite me.”

It was so incongruous that I laughed. “Okay, you’re supposed to be the nice one. What’s going on?”

She fumed silently and went through lots of lip tightening and teeth baring. Finally she blurted, “I’m going stir- crazy! And I’m frustrated! I’m…I’m…urgh!”

Urgh? It sounded like she was growling. I had a sneaking feeling what the subtext of her words meant. I turned and looked at Max, who appeared poleaxed. But after a minute, his eyes cleared, then turned dark as he flashed Emily a dangerous scowl.

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her out of her chair.

“No, you come with me,” she said, and dragged him off toward the bedroom. Before they were out of the room, she hopped up into his arms and straddled him.

Oo-kay. My work here was done.

Over the next few days, I didn’t see much of them. Well, except when they would stumble out of their bedroom, rumpled and replete and hungry. One evening I baked enchiladas, then went to take a long bath. When I got back to the kitchen, there was one enchilada left, and it was the straggly, half-filled one on the end. I guess the young lovers needed to keep up their strength.

When they weren’t in their bedroom they sat close together on the couch or cuddled on the rug near the fireplace, having long, private talks. At night they would venture onto the deck and huddle in a blanket. I couldn’t hear the conversations, just the occasional giggle or sigh.

I was superfluous, except in my role as cook, dishwasher, and feeder of the cat. I couldn’t complain, though. I still had Clyde’s friendship. And it was lovely to watch Max and Emily reconnect.

It wasn’t all hearts and flowers, of course. It was slow going and there were glitches at first. I knew both of them were frustrated. Emily was occasionally tentative and Max had a tendency to brood.

Who could blame either of them? Emily explained to me that she hadn’t been with a man since Max’s “death” three years ago. She’d made every effort to move on, built a good, if quiet, life for herself. She’d been content to live alone. Now, suddenly, the man she’d loved so deeply had returned. But he’d lied to her, shown he didn’t trust her. Was it any wonder she sometimes questioned their present relationship?

And Max had lived the life of a solitary refugee for the past three years. He had survived in the shadows of society, afraid to be too friendly or gregarious in case he attracted too much attention. He’d always been a bit of a brooder, but now he was world-class.

It was so easy for me to see the big picture from the sidelines, but I tried to avoid offering advice or critiques and simply kept my mouth shut. There was a very good reason for that: namely, I was the last person on earth to give anyone relationship advice. Hello? Once engaged to a gay man? Not smart!

No, the two of them would have to stumble through this one on their own. But I was encouraged and held out hope that they would come through stronger and more in love than ever.

If we all survived the safe house, that was.

Even though I kept my mouth shut, I did keep my eyes open and focused on the “happy” couple. Not simply for safety reasons, but because they were just so fascinating and normal.

For some reason, observing the two of them interacting together reminded me of a BBC nature program I’d been hooked on years ago when I was living in London. It was called The Return of the Tit- Willows.

Out in the woods, a camera had been inserted inside a tree where the young tit-willow couple had set up residence. Viewers could observe everything the birds were doing. The original reality show, right? It was fascinating to watch, but the absolute best part of the show was the narrator. He would describe each bird’s movements as though he were doing commentary at a golf tournament, his voice hushed and extremely serious. It was gripping.

The male tit-willow approaches the nest. The female senses his arrival and readies herself. Wings flutter, feathers fly. Then…What’s this? It’s off with the boys he goes! Six weeks later, there’s the piper to pay.

LOL, as Melody Byers would say. I couldn’t get enough of those BBC nature programs.

After another long day and night, Emily and Max left their room and became sociable. We all got along well and Emily and I had some good talks, usually in the kitchen while playing flunkies to Max, our esteemed chef, who really had honed his kitchen skills.

Over dinners, Max talked about his life on the farm and Emily was enthralled. She loved hearing about the fig trees and the goats and the honeybees and the radicchio he’d grown. Loved hearing how Max had found Bucky through a dog-rescue service and how Clyde had walked into Max’s kitchen one day and adopted him.

She was amazed that Max woke up so early and worked so hard on his farm, and she was fascinated by the way he’d changed his world so drastically. She grilled him on the process he went through to become a different person. Max’s experiences became romantic and exciting when seen through her eyes.

Clyde warmed up to Emily slowly, and Emily made it clear she loved the cat. While I was thrilled to know that Clyde would be cherished by his new mistress, it was a bittersweet shot of reality for me. The time had come to decide whether to find my own little cat to love. But would another cat love me like Clyde did? It was a big chance to take and I would need to think it through very carefully.

During the day, though we’d never discussed it, Max and I had begun taking turns distracting Emily. He and I had our work to keep us busy, but we needed to find things for Emily to do. Otherwise, she would become so totally bored, she might run screaming out of the house.

That afternoon, Max taught her how to make paper. I watched, too, because while I’d learned the process long ago, I’d never taken a class from Max. He was fabulous and worth every groupie he’d ever attracted.

“It’s so disgusting,” Emily said, smashing the pestle into the large bowl that had been filled with soaking-wet newspapers and old magazines, which were beginning to turn into a mushy paste from constant beating.

“That’s the perfect consistency,” he said, sticking his finger into the gloppy gray pulp.

Emily grinned. “It might be fun to teach my students to do this.”